For the Potions Master's Amusement
Chapter 25: Emotional Warfare
Hermione did not dawdle; she had no time to waste. The Yule Ball was all but upon them. Choosing last year's dress robes from her wardrobe, she trekked down the hall to the room shared by Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown.
'Of course we'll help you!' Lavender said, pleased to be consulted for her expertise.
Parvati appeared behind Lavender and reached past her to grab Hermione's hand. 'I have a stack of fashion magazines we can look through, and Lavender is the best in all of Gryffindor at Transfiguring clothes!'
Hermione allowed herself to be pulled into the other girls' room, seeing the familiar sprawl of their very girly possessions strewn about the space—their clutter was one reason why she had been happy to have a room to herself for this last year at school.
'And if you like,' Lavender said tentatively, apparently remembering how her offers had been rebuffed in the past, 'we can help you plan out your hair and make-up …'
Hermione turned a grateful smile on her classmate. 'Could you?' she said plaintively, hiding her inner glee—she was getting exactly what she needed to arm herself for making her professor eat his heart out on the evening of the Yule Ball.
On Monday night, Professor Snape again left notes in her journal, offering to allow her to orgasm, providing she did it to fantasies of poor Anthony. If she declined his offer, her alternative was to write one thousand words on why, as she had stated in her previous night's essay, she would prefer to fantasise about her Dominant than her Yule Ball date.
Hermione tackled her task with grim relish. Dipping her quill in a bottle of ink, she set about to arouse her professor with her vivid explanation of why she preferred to fantasise about him.
On Tuesday night, the identical offer was forthcoming; this time, the alternative was to compare and contrast her feelings regarding fantasising about Anthony Goldstein versus fantasising about Professor Snape—only this time, he doubled the word count.
Hermione stared at the assignment. Really? Did he really need three nights in a row of reassurance that he was the focus of her sexual attraction? Or was he trying to make a not-so-subtle point with her?
She sat at the desk, fanning the feather of her quill gently back and forth across her chin, contemplating their relative positions. Could it be that her professor was finally in a position of want more acute than her own? No, that didn't seem right—she wanted him every bit as much today as she had done on the preceding days. But could it be that he was finally experiencing feelings of insecurity about the disposition of her affection?
She bit her lip and reasoned through it. Perhaps it was a good thing for her professor to experience even a small part of the agony she experienced every time he left the castle to be with Taffy Smith. Maybe it would make him feel more kindly towards her when she expressed distress over his association with the other witch. And maybe—just maybe—it would alert him to his feelings for her, Hermione. She was sure he had feelings for her—hadn't he made her admit to belonging to him? Hadn't he treated her with a tenderness and reverence which bespoke far greater consideration than that of a Dominant for a mere trainee?
Surely she couldn't be wrong about this, the most important thing in her life: She loved Severus Snape and wanted to lay her submission at his feet; she wanted to be his one and only submissive.
With her resolve clarified, Hermione began to write her two thousand word essay, trying not to imagine her professor reading her heated words and taking himself in hand, gaining a relief he was refusing her by his impossible requirements for her masturbation assignments.
In Potions class on Wednesday afternoon, Hermione nervously awaited some reaction from her professor. She ached for him, denied even the warmth of his benevolent oversight, it seemed, by his taunting suggestion that she fantasise about Anthony Goldstein while getting herself off. She couldn't prove it, but it felt as if he were punishing her for accepting an invitation to go to the ball. What did he want her to do? Stay in her room all night while all of her friends were at the party? Go alone and sit about the Great Hall without partners while everyone else danced—and while he, no doubt, looked on from across the room, relishing her solitude?
Her chin rose at the very thought.
The slam of the classroom door heralded his entrance, and Hermione could not prevent herself from immediately seeking the sight of him, her heart rate seemed to double. Professor Snape swept to the chalkboard, jabbing his wand at it and producing the day's assignment in his handwriting—spiky script which Hermione had come to associate with frank sexual enticement and instruction rather than Potions assignments.
'You will complete your assignment today in silence,' the professor snarled at the class. 'There will be no chatter. It is time for you to brew your potions based on your own skill, meagre though it might be.'
Not breathing, Hermione waited for the black eyes to come to rest on her face, but it did not happen. The professor turned his back on the class and stalked to his desk, seating himself and taking up his marking quill without another word. Disconsolate, Hermione began to assemble the ingredients needed for the lesson.
'Granger.'
Hermione's head jerked up, her heart in her throat. The rest of the class looked up as well, to find Professor Snape glaring at Hermione from the front of the room.
'You may spend the class period restocking and tidying the storeroom.' With an arrogant sneer, the professor returned to his marking.
'Lazy git should keep his own storeroom tidy,' Ron muttered indignantly, glaring daggers at their teacher.
'Never mind,' Hermione whispered, hastily stuffing her belongings away in her bag. She wiped her inexplicably sweaty hands surreptitiously down her skirt and hurried to the storeroom, her eyes on the stone floor, her heart racing in anticipation.
Entering the storeroom, she lit the gas lamp and stared in disgust at the barrel of newt intestines, which was the only potions ingredient yet to be shelved. Damn! Did he really mean for her to put the revolting things in a jar? Or was he going to come into the cupboard with her and …
She shifted from one foot to the other, remembering the last time she'd been in the storeroom with her professor, his breath short with sexual arousal as he pressed her hand to his impressive erection, showing her how her obedience excited him. Her quim throbbed with want at the mere memory, and she waited for him with senses heightened to the boiling point.
And waited.
When five minutes had passed, by her watch, it occurred to her with a sick thump of disappointment that he actually meant for her to clear away the mess of the newt intestines. Well, she wasn't going to do it without her gloves. Stealthily, she crept to the door of the storeroom and slipped into the classroom again, hoping to get past her teacher without his notice. His head was bent over the stack of essays on his desk, and he corrected them with broad strokes of red ink upon the parchment, a sneer of derision upon his face. Feeling more let down than ever, Hermione inched around his desk, only to be stopped short by his voice, pitched for her ears alone.
'Where do you think you're going?'
Hermione swallowed audibly. 'I didn't think to bring my gloves—'
He cut across her. 'If I had meant for you to wear gloves, I would have told you to bring them.'
Hermione felt her face flush with humiliation. Why wouldn't he look at her? Why was he being so cold and distant and unkind? 'But—'she began unhappily, and he interrupted her again.
'Either do your assignment or get out and take a zero for the day,' he snarled, never slowing in his red ink defacement of the parchment before him.
Turning from him wordlessly, Hermione walked to the table she shared with Harry and Ron, feeling empty inside. It wasn't that she had any objection to completing the task he had set for her, but that she could not bear to remain one more moment in his presence when all he demonstrated was angry indifference. It hurt too much.
'Finished already?' Harry whispered out of the side of his mouth. 'Good job.'
Hermione didn't answer him; she simply slung her bag over her shoulder and left the room, a mass of confusion raging in her tummy.
The spiky handwriting appeared in her journal again that night, and Hermione actually shed tears over it. She had been ill with apprehension that she had offended her Dominant so grievously that he meant to stop his association with her. The whole notion had made her so sad that she had been unable to go down to dinner in the Great Hall, instead lying listlessly upon her bed with the green leather book open before her, all her hopes rather fatuously fixed on the appearance of Professor Snape's instructions for the night.
Your masturbation assignment remains the same, he wrote. If you choose not to accept the assignment, an alternative is to write two thousand words on your current state of mind, your thoughts on how you came to feel as you do, and how this relates to your submission to your Dominant.
Hermione didn't hesitate; she sat up and reached for her quill, a tiny spark of hope burning within her. He wouldn't ask after her if he didn't care, would he? He wouldn't want to hear yet more of her devotion to him if he was finished with her, would he?
She dipped her quill in the inkstand, her brow furrowed. Was it possible that his coldness and distance were a product of insecurity or hurt, rather than the desire to be cruel?
The traitorous voice in her mind shouted, Get a grip! He's just a man! But Hermione could barely hear that voice of reason above the clamour in her body for the touch of her Dominant.
Gripping her lower lip between her teeth, she began to write.
She slept surprisingly well that night, after writing her two thousand word assignment for Professor Snape, and she went about her day cheerfully. Tomorrow was the Yule Ball, and the day after that was Saturday, when she would be alone with her professor. She would do all she could to make him want her between now and then. She had the best part of three weeks in the castle with most of the students gone for Christmas hols—time she could spend in the company of a certain devastatingly attractive wizard, if he proved willing.
She looked for him at meals, hoping for some sign from him—just a glance would do, really—but he came late to meals and left early, studiously avoiding her eye at all times. Once, she thought she had caught him looking at her, but he averted his gaze so quickly she couldn't be sure. The day before, this behaviour might have upset or saddened her, but today, she was simply determined to persevere through the next two days to Saturday, when she would be alone with him in his study, naked and kneeling, free of the need to think or decide anything except whether or not she would yield her will to him.
That night before bedtime, she opened her journal to record her food and studying for the day, and found her professor had already written to her.
Your masturbation assignment remains the same. If you persist in declining the opportunity to orgasm to thoughts of fucking Mr Goldstein, then you may write a four thousand word essay. The topic of the essay will be as follows:
(1). Outline your understanding of the obligations and duties of the submissive in a D/s relationship
(2). Outline your understanding of the obligation and duties of the Dominant in a D/s relationship
(3). Detail your hopes for your future service of the Dominant to whom you offer your submission
Hermione stared at the journal with mouth-gaping indignation. Four thousand words? It was already eleven o'clock—it would take her hours to write that much! She would be exhausted in the morning, not to mention looking like a hag for the ball tomorrow night from lack of sleep!
Of course, if she didn't complete the assignment, it would give her professor an excuse to punish her. And she had no way of knowing when he had entered this assignment in her journal—it didn't exactly come with a time stamp, did it? He might have put this assignment in her book at seven o'clock, when she was busy moderating an argument between some fourth-year girls, or at eight o'clock, when she was doing her Transfiguration homework. He had no way of knowing she wouldn't get to her journal until this late—and she had known she would have another writing assignment from him tonight, hadn't she? She might have had the foresight to check earlier in the evening for her assignment.
With a sigh of resignation, she took up her quill. He was asking some very specific questions, really—it was a perfect opportunity to tell him what she wanted from him, what she wanted to give him, and how she would serve him, given the chance. Of course, she would couch it all in rather vague wording—she wouldn't come out and beg to belong to him. Pushing aside any concern regarding the lateness of the hour, she began to write.
Potions class on Friday afternoon was nerve wracking. Once again, Professor Snape gave the class their assignment, then ordered Hermione into the storeroom.
Harry frowned. 'What have you done to get up Snape's nose, Hermione?' he said quietly.
Hermione just shook her head, snatching up her gloves and going into the storeroom, unsurprised to find the barrel of newt intestines where she had left it. Pulling her gloves on, she plunged her hands into the disgusting mess.
'Did I say you could use gloves?'
His voice was right behind her, and Hermione jerked around, her heart in her throat, beating an uneven cadence. She hadn't stood this close to him since Sunday night—she could smell his aftershave, overpowered by the stench of the brine dripping from her gloves.
She spoke, her voice uneven. 'If I don't wear the gloves, I will smell like newt intestines for the next two days.'
One eyebrow rose interrogatively. 'What's your point?'
Her chin came up. 'You just want me to smell disgusting for the ball tonight!'
He sneered. 'Your social life is of no concern to me. You are not permitted to wear the gloves to organise the newt intestines.'
'Then I won't do it,' she said, knowing she sounded a bit shrill but unable to control her voice.
'Then you will take another zero,' he said dangerously, his eyes glittering. 'How many zeros can your class average take before you fall below Outstanding, I wonder?'
Hermione stood before him, trembling with a combination of fury and desire. Dear Merlin, what was wrong with her, that he could stand there being an absolute git, and all she wanted was to kneel at his feet and beg him to fuck her?
His eyes raked over her. 'Of course, if you find yourself unequal to the task, I suppose you can come in for detention to deal with the newt intestines.'
'Yes!' Hermione agreed instantly. Detention would be just the two of them, wouldn't it?
But his smile, like that of a crocodile, alerted her that he had wanted her to make this choice.
'Saturday morning, seven o'clock,' he said. 'Don't be late.'
'But …' she blurted—but she was speaking to empty air. He had departed the storeroom in a swirl of black cloak.
Honestly! The ball wasn't set to end until one o'clock in the morning! Surely he didn't expect her to be in the dungeons at seven in the morning after being up so late?
Gritting her teeth, she removed her soiled gloves and cast a Cleansing Charm on them before sweeping past her smirking professor to take up her bag and depart Potions early for the second time that week.
That night, she stood before the full length mirror she had conjured and twirled slowly, very pleased with her appearance. Her dress was bronze, a design Lavender had rather deftly copied for her from one of Parvati's magazines. The squared neckline draped softly across her chest, just where her cleavage began to show, and the skirt stopped at mid-thigh, a rather daring length for Hermione. But there was an over-skirt, which fell in flowing folds to the tips of her shoes; it opened down the front, but that did not become apparent until she began to walk, and with each step, her nylon-sheathed legs peeked through. She was terribly pleased with her undergarments, as well, and she had every intention of wearing them for her professor sometime during the upcoming holiday. She wore silky nylons which attached to frilly black suspenders; her knickers were a satiny black, figured with silvery-white snowflakes, and her bra matched the underpants. Lavender and Parvati had applied her make-up, adding a rather intoxicating perfume at her throat. Hermione had put her hair up on her own, using copious amounts of Sleekeazy's Hair Potion, and she was pleased with the tendrils which graced her nape. All in all, she thought she looked prettier than she had ever done—and she hoped that the sight of her pierced her professor to the core.
A/N: I know, what's the good of a PWP with no smut? But this was a necessary chapter, and a hefty helping of smut is coming in the next couple of chapters. Have faith in me, and I promise not to let you down. Oh, and the suspenders and stockings were for MollysSister, who was offended by Hermione's thoughtless use of tights.
